You might see them in the sea,
Head's above the water, staring
at the lofty sky while being mauled
By the creatures of their past
underneath. They choose to feed
Themselves with bread of no
Yeast—afraid to grow and
Fight again.
Some are walking backwards,
Trying to go back in wistful
Nostalgia, wanting to know
Why they inhale pain and
Reaping weeds for they never
Sow it. And I met one resting
In ethereal comfort, migrating
In the world of words.
Traveling to places they've
Never been before.
The ruins whose hope
Are now worn out mumbled
For one thing: the good riddance
Of winter pain. The lost just want
To be led home and dreamed
Of a moment when they can
Laugh out their lungs again,
Celebrate the feast of merriment.
You'll see, they'll put themselves
back together and stand—
One day at a time.
—𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎.